


You’re lucky I don’t have a gag reflex

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blow Jobs, Illustrations, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12451767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: “Yeah?” Grif asked with a lazy, confident crooked grin, ready for the rejection, already trying to visualize how he’d grab Church’s gun and lock him in the room.“Didn’t you want a condom?” he asked, voice an octave higher, face even redder now, avoiding eye contact.-Grif seduces his way out jail.





	You’re lucky I don’t have a gag reflex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hylian_reptile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/gifts).



> The prompt: grif/church; grif is traded away as a hostage and tries to seduce his way out of jail because u know he fuckin would
> 
> The illustration was done by the awesome [whatevergetsyouoffatnight!](https://whatevergetsyouoffatnight.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

It was chill for a while, but Grif’s starting to get sick of the whole being held captive thing. Blue Team had somehow lucked out into being slightly less idiotic than Red Team for a long enough moment to get into an advantageous enough position for Sarge to feel pressed to trade Grif away as a hostage for the good of the Glorious Red Army. It had admittedly not taken very much at all to convince Sarge to do the trade, nor long to decide who to give up.

But after he’d sighed and bitched some and cooperated with the Blues as they brought him to their base he discovered that it wasn’t all that bad. Not at all. No Sarge ordering him around, no Simmons nagging him to pick up after himself, no Lopez to mutter what was probably threats in his direction, and no Donut offering to give him a facial. No one who knew him well enough to know to count and keep track of the food stock, to lock it up tighter than Fort Knox and move it around. And he was a prisoner, so no chores! His only job was just to _laze around._ He could do that! He could do that in his _sleep,_ which was the point actually.

The room he was sleeping in was probably meant to be locked at all times, but Caboose stopped by almost a dozen times per day saying stuff like, “Oh, this isn’t the kitchen!” or, “He’s not here either. Hi, Griff!” and then leaving without even _closing_ the door behind him. Tucker would stop by as well, and he mostly just seemed like he wanted to make small talk and gossip about their teams, which Grif was more than fine with because he brought beer and snacks as bribes.

He was, in all honesty, probably being treated better by the enemy than his own allies. Which was totally hilarious and not depressing at all. But he was starting to get tired of the luxury of being a Blue Team prisoner anyways, somehow. He’d missed, like, three of Donut’s Wine and Cheese Hours, and those were nothing to sneeze at. There was _wine and cheese_ at those. And Sarge was probably growing glum at having no punching bag to be a maniac at. And who would Simmons bitch to? _Lopez?_

And Caboose kept accidentally interrupting his naps. Sure, Red Team tried to intentionally do that, but somehow Caboose managed to be better than them at it without even trying.

So it was on his third day of being a captive that he decided to finally try and escape. Should be easy. He would just have to stand up, walk up to the door, open it--oh look at that, unlocked, what a shocker--and walk right out of the door and--

Grif walked right into the Blue Team leader.

The guy hadn’t come and visited him before like the other Blues yet, Tucker said it was because Church thought he’d somehow be a bigger pain in the ass than his own teammates because he was the enemy. Grif thought it would be basically impossible to be more annoying than Caboose and Tucker, but he didn’t mind. Leaders tended to be people like Sarge-- tense, volatile, power hungry assholes. No thanks.

But now Grif had bumped right fucking into him and he seriously hoped that he was wrong here, that Church was the exception that proved the rule, one of the _nice_ bosses.

“What the fuck are you doing out of your cell!?” he demanded.

The thing about being a cynic is that you’re more often than not right. It isn’t satisfying.

“Uhhhh,” Grif says. “Looking for you.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

_Good question._

He quickly gives Church a once over. What immediately jumps out at him is that he has a gun and Grif most definitely does not. The second thing he notices though is that he’s wearing fatigues instead of his armor, giving him an opportunity to see his face for the first time.

… It’s a really good face. High cheekbones, clear skin, a sharp jaw, dark hair and thick eyebrows, and some of the greenest eyes he’s ever seen on a real person. He thinks he’d look even better if he wasn’t scrunching up his face in an impatient scowl-- oh, that’s right, he’s waiting for a response, isn’t he.

The beginnings of an idea are floating around in his head and it's incredibly stupid and likely to fail, but really, what ideas that occur in this damned canyon aren’t? Must be something in the water.

Also, Grif hasn’t had the chance to masturbate in three days or have sex in almost three _years._ Might as well.

He grins at him, making it slow and filthy with little effort. “Yeah, there’s a problem with my room.”

“Your _cell,”_ Church corrects him. “How did you even get out? It was supposed to be locked.”

“There’s no lube,” he goes on, because some people you can’t be subtle with when you’re flirting, and Church seems like one of them. “Or condoms. How are we supposed to…?”

Church blinks at him, thankfully appearing to have been successfully distracted from his current train of thought. And that frown was gone too, now, washed away by the surprise. He was right. He _did_ look better without it. “What?”

“I mean, why else did you capture me?”

There was of course so much wrong with that question that Church clearly didn’t even know where to start and was thus struck silent, which was exactly Grif’s intention. It was a move he pulled often with Simmons.

“I am the most good looking one on my team,” he blatantly lied. “And the best one at sucking dicks, so.” He winked. He wasn’t even sure if that one was true, considering Donut, but he was still pretty decent at it.

“I--” Church sputtered, and oh, he was starting to go red in the face now, clinging his gun to his chest like a bashful lady in a movie would hold a sheet up over her chest. It was fucking cute. Yeah, Grif could seriously do this. “You don’t have to-- that’s not--”

“And the most willing to put out,” he went on. Again, Donut. Not sure how much of what came out of his mouth was just unintentional cluelessness, his sense of humor, or actual fact. He was a mildly disturbing enigma of a man.

Church didn’t seem to have a response to that besides going even more red, staring at him wide eyed. Grif _really_ liked those eyes.

He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movements, acutely aware of the fact that Church was still the one with a gun here and he might remember it at any moment and stop looking so gobsmacked and start looking threatening instead. He hooked one of his fingers through one of Church’s belt loops and started pulling him after him, walking backwards into the room he’d just left.

“I,” Church stuttered. “Um.”

“Yeah?” Grif asked with a lazy, confident crooked grin, ready for the rejection, already trying to visualize how he’d grab Church’s gun and lock him in the room.

“Didn’t you want a condom?” he asked, voice an octave higher, face even redder now, avoiding eye contact.

Grif pauses, surprised. And then: pleased. His grin gets a little more genuine, a little more excited, impish. Grif was about to get _laid._ On a shitty desert planet with a total of eight people on it, if you counted Lopez and himself. Ha, and people thought his sister had all of the game.

“I can go without,” he said mildly, because fuck it.

He continues walking into the room, dragging Church along with him, and he doesn’t try and stop him or protest in any way again.

The “cell” is basically just a standard Bloodgulch Canyon bedroom except with the lock on the outside instead of the inside, and Grif’s pretty sure the Blues just flipped the door around and called it a day. He wonders if Command didn’t see fit to provide them with cells because they either expected them just to promptly execute all prisoners or not be able to capture any in the first place due to sheer incompetence. Or maybe it was a budget thing, whatever.

Grif turns his pulling into pushing, gentle enough not to be misconstrued as an attack, Grif finally dropping the ruse as soon as he’d gotten Church into the room with him. It _was_ a ruse, but Grif was planning to take it quite a deal further than someone else in his position would, probably. Church went along with it, the back of his knees hitting the bed before he sat down.

Grif moves to kneel down between his legs, but Church stops him with a hand placed on his shoulder.

“Um, wait, you’re just going to…?” he said, still having trouble meeting his eyes, apparently. Grif was hoping he’d get over that soon so he could have those eyes back on him. They were just better that way, somehow.

“Ah, so you’re a foreplay kinda dude,” he says.

Church’s eyes finally snapped back onto him, but along with them came that damned scowl again. _“So?”_ he asked, clearly having read far too much into Grif’s idle comment.

“So it’s just that I’m kinda eager to get your dick in my mouth,” he said with that same casual tone, his eyes going half lidded, gaze intent on Church’s face, and it does not disappoint. There comes that flustered surprise again, scowl melting away to give way for embarrassment and shock and, oh, _interest._ Well, of course he’d have to be somewhat interested (or desperate) to accept Grif’s offer in the first place, but it was still nice to see. Sent a little thrill down his spine.

He smirks. “But I think I can wait if you _insist._ You’re in charge here.” And then he leans down to kiss him instead, a soft press of lips against lips. Damn, but they were soft. How could such a pissy asshole be so hot? Life wasn’t fair.

Church’s hand drifts up to the base of Grif’s skull, pushing him a little deeper into the kiss, and Grif thinks _one hand off the gun._ Also, the fact that he’s participating is nice, too. Grif never likes having to do all of the work.

He leans further and further into the kiss until Church is leaned far enough back that Grif can crawl onto the bed, sorta looming over him. He breaks the kiss that was starting to get pretty nice and heated to look down at him. Church glares at him, horny and angry about it, apparently, but at least those eyes are boldly fixed on his. He’s got his gun resting against his chest, left hand still holding it. Was it his dominant hand or not?

“Care to take your shirt off?” he asks him with a raised eyebrow.

Church moves like for a moment he’s about to do it, but then he seems to notice his gun, as if half of Grif’s attention wasn’t constantly on it, and he stills. Glares at him. “Is this a ploy to get me to let go of my gun?”

“Or stay completely clothed the entire time, I guess,” Grif said with a shrug like it was no skin off his back. And then, a devilish smile as he adds, “Your face is more than enough all on its own.”

Its one of the few honest things he’s said to the guy, and it's satisfying as hell to see that mean look on his face get wiped away as he’s thrown for a loop by his words, blushing returning with a force.

“Shut up,” Church mutters, apparently not liking the consistent effect Grif’s words are having on him.

Church keeps his shirt on, which is a pity even besides the whole gun thing because as Grif runs his hands up and down his sides as they make out he notes that he feels wiry with muscle, lithe and tight. Grif’s thumb brushes his nipple over his shirt and he twitches and arcs into it effortlessly, automatically, even. He could probably hold some pretty interesting positions for a while, he thinks, and feels himself start to get hard.

Church still has one hand on his gun, stretched out away from them on the bed, and the other comes back up to the base of his scalp to curl into his hair and gently tug him downwards. He goes along with it, kissing the line of his jaw and settling at his throat. Church’s pulse is warm and jumping fast against his lips, and he grins into it before opening his mouth to give it a hot, openmouthed kiss, licking and sucking.

Church moans and grinds up into him, and he is _rock_ hard. Grif’s half chubby quickly follows suit.

“Fuck,” Church says fervently, sounding not entirely steady. “Bite me.”

Ah, so he liked it a little rough. _Nice._ Grif bit down, increasing the pressure until Church was gasping and tugging helplessly at his hair.

He leaves a mess of hickies on his throat, idly thinking about how he’s going to explain _that_ to his teammates, before Church’s grip on his hair is weak enough that he can easily slide down his body without it stopping him, fingers slipping through the strands.

Grif spares a moment to wish that Church had taken his shirt off again as he makes his way down, imagining kissing his way down his chest all the way to his dick. They’re sprawled along the length of the bed now, Church’s head resting on the pillow, an arm tossed over his eyes that he tentatively peeks out from behind, Grif lying between his legs, his feet sticking out from the bottom of the bed a little, but not enough to be a problem. He’s facing Church’s crotch, and he reaches his hands out to undo the zipper with a glance at Church to see if he’ll try and stop him again.

Church is flushed bright red yet again, one bright green eye fixed on the goings on, the other hiding behind his arm. It’s a very nice image.

If Church wanted to stop him, he’d stop him. Grif unzips the bulge in Church’s pants, and curls his hand into his underwear, fishing his dick out. He stops to blink at it for a moment, and his mouth waters. Wow-- yeah, he really shouldn’t even be surprised any longer at this point. Church is basically a porn star with a pissy personality who’s wasting his sexy potential in a dusty canyon wearing full body armor when he should be walking around in front of cameras only wearing a speedo and some baby oil at the most.

“What?” Church asks, and there’s that hostile defensiveness again, this time with a note of insecurity to it as well. _Really?_ Has this guy never been in a locker room before? He did go through Basic, right?

“You’re lucky I don’t have a gag reflex,” he says mildly, shutting him down at the start again. He makes it too easy.

Church makes a choked noise at that, and then another when Grif opens his mouth and swallows him down. He’s circumcised, thick, and long, and Grif starts reflexively swallowing halfway down. Church starts swearing, his free hand fisted in the sheets. He determinedly slides his way down to the base of him, huffing a breath through his nose against the tight, dark curls of Church’s pubes, and palms himself through his pants.

Slide back up, up to the very top, lips resting against his prick in a silent kiss for just a moment, precum beading, and then back down, tongue sandwiched between the dick and his teeth to be safe. All the way down. And then up, but not all the way, just most of it. Up, down, up, down. Set a rhythm. Go faster. Listen to Church desperately trying to stay quiet and partially fail, hissed curses and _oh my gods_ filling the room.

Grif curls the hand he’s bracing himself with into Church’s hip, blunt nails scratching across skin lightly, tightening the grip he’s got on his own dick tighter through his pants, wishing he’d had the forethought to unzip himself before he started.

A low, desperate moan escapes Church’s mouth, ringing through the air, and Grif braces his elbow between Church’s legs so he can stroke his balls, sucking harder, bobbing faster, and he gives a pleased little humm that wrings a breathless gasp out of Church and--

“Fuck!” Church cries out, his voice breaking, and his hands are buried in Grif’s hair, grip achingly tight, and he’s coming down his throat, pumping hot come into his mouth that he swallows automatically, and Church throws his head back and groans at that.

His hands loosen as soon as he stops coming, and Grif slowly slides his mouth off the dick to get a good look at his face. He looks blissed out, dazed and staring at the ceiling, blinking at it like there’s something very hard to believe up there.

Grif is at this point painfully hard, and he wants nothing more than to unzip and jerk it to that wondering, absurdly pretty face, but--

The gun is lying a foot away from Church’s head, abandoned.

Grif thinks about how likely it is for Red Team to carry out a successful rescue mission any time soon, sighs, and picks up the gun, keeping his movements slow and casual in Church’s peripheral vision.

Church blinks at the ceiling for a little bit longer, but then starts as Grif stands up from the bed and stares at him, wide eyed and astonished. Grif points Church’s gun at him.

“Well, this has been fun,” Grif says, feeling like a femme fatale. “We should do this again sometime. _Seriously.”_

And then he starts backing away from him towards the door, the _shut up and don’t move_ unspoken and obvious.

“Oh my god,” Church says with an incredulous sort of horror. “You’re _crafty.”_

Grif feels a genuine flash of flattery and fondness that’s downright embarrassing, but keeps his face in its casually smug expression because he’s the one winning here. He fumbles for the doorknob behind him without taking his eyes off Church. Pauses to take the image of him _really_ in, flushed and rumpled, stretched out on the bed, dick still out. _(He_ did that.)

He’s going to need some spankbank material for when he gets back to Red Base, after all, as his hard on painfully reminds him.

“And you’re a good fuck,” Grif compliments him right back, and escapes.

**Author's Note:**

> The Director: make AI me a big dicked beauty or else you’re fired.


End file.
